The Story of a New York House. Henry Cuyler Bunner

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      His son looked at him with a further inquiry. He felt a sudden new apprehension. The father sat back in his easy-chair, drumming on the arms with nervous fingers.

      "I shall never go back there," he said again.

      "Of course you know best, sir," said young Jacob, gently; "but would it be well to be precipitate? It is possible that you may feel differently some time – "

      "There is no 'some time' for me!" broke in the old man, gripping the chair-arms, fiercely; "my time's done – done, sir!"

      Then his voice broke and became plaintively kind.

      "There, there! Forgive me, Jacob, boy. But it's true, my boy, true. The world's done, for me; but there's a world ahead for you, my son, thank God! I'll be patient – I'll be patient. God has been good to me, and I haven't many years to wait, in the course of nature."

      He looked vacantly out of the window, trying to see the unforeseen with his mental sight.

      "While I'm here, Jacob, let the old man have his way. It's a whimsey; I doubt 'tis hardly rational. But I have no heart to go home. Let me learn to live my life here. 'Twill be easier."

      "But do you think it necessary to sell, sir? Could you not hold the house? Are you certain that you would like to have a stranger living there?"